The Things We Carry
Something I wrote about a year and a half ago. Still relevent.
*all names changed for privacy, as per usual*
Barely five minutes into the walk, the inevitable happens. Six-year-old Sarah*, struggling to keep up with my lengthy strides, asks if we can take a break. Holding back a smile, I reply.
"I can hold that bag if it's too heavy for you."
She happily consents, passing over the bag stuffed with toys, books, and two plastic packages of sliced cheese.
"It's hurting my arms and my wrist," she says, shaking her slender limbs with a sigh of relief.
"I told you not to put too much stuff in it!" I exclaimed. "Remember when I said that back at the house?"
"But it wasn't heavy back at the house," Sarah protests, as though the laws of science have just been broken in the most offensive way possible.
"Well," I say in my best I-told-you-so Wise Babysitter voice, having predicted this moment long ago, "The longer you hold something, the heavier it becomes, since your body gets tired."
The minute I release these words into the foggy, chilly morning air, I realize that I've stumbled upon a perfect metaphor. One that applies so perfectly to my life right now, I have to laugh inwardly at the uncanny timing. All this thanks to the decision of an ambitious six-year old
See, the things we carry don't usually seem too heavy at first. We convince ourselves that we can deal with them, bury them, or just have them by our sides as an unpleasant, yet bearable, traveling companion. We don't feel the weight at first. And why would we?
It reminds me of the story about the frog. If you place it in a pot of boiling water, it will of course attempt to jump out, unable to bear the blistering heat. But if you put it in a pot of cold water, which is then slowly brought to a boil, the poor frog doesn't stand a chance. The tipping point arrives too late.
Sometimes I wonder what this invisible baggage would look like if we could see it. Would it surround the person like a thick smog? Would it cling to their shoulders like an ugly, bloated parasite, sucking out just enough energy to keep it going while still letting its host live? Would it burn on their skin like a festering wound?
The things we carry come in many different forms and shapes. Abuse. Trauma. Emotional pain. Physical pain. The loss of a loved one. Stress. Anxiety. Depression. Anger. Fear. Resentment. Jealousy. A sense of inadequacy. An emptiness hard to explain but horrible to experience.
We all carry one or more of these things, dragging them behind us while plastering on pseudo-smiles to get us through the day. Because our society does not reward honesty and vulnerability. It does not praise those who understand the importance of sensitivity, of emotional intelligence.
So we hide those stories and call them "skeletons in the closet," failing to understand that these burdens are not lifeless bags of bones. No, they are pulsing, raw, and very much alive.
Barely a week later I sit at the polished wooden table hearing my grandma tell my boyfriend and I how she had to take three full days last month to stay at home and let go of the things she was carrying. Guilt, fear, anxiety, and the ache of losing her husband, my dear grandpa, just over a year ago. Among other things. She was brave enough to cry. Brave enough to release the toxins and acknowledge her limits. Brave enough to be human.
I sit and listen and feel my own baggage lying thick and sticky in my stomach, heart, chest, lungs, and mind. I can feel it eating me alive, and this thought terrifies me. It's a familiar monster, and I have let it take over, have buckled under its weight one too many times.
When Sarah finally shrugs off her heavy bag, she skips off down the path, light as a feather, shouting "Wait up" to her younger sister. Later, at the park, I realize that I still have the bag slung over my shoulder, though I could have put it down 30 minutes ago on the rain-soaked bench. Story of my life, I think wryly, holding onto things I shouldn't.
I am a giver by nature, eagerly lending my support to those who need it. Not because I feel obliged to do so, but because I want to help. But I squirm at the thought of resolving my own issues, or letting go of the things that stick to my body like cancerous tumors, draining me a little bit more every day.
"Letting go" is easier said than done, a term that gets chucked around in the arenas of self-help, pseudo-spirituality, life coaching, and a certain icy Disney movie (yes, I had to go there. Don't pretend you aren't humming it right now). We can't all resolve our life traumas by singing and prancing around in snow castles. Hell, if only it was that easy. But guess what? Disney lies and happy endings aren't really a thing. Sorry kids.
The holiday season was practically non-existent for me this year. I felt like the proverbial Grinch, though perhaps that had something to do with being immersed in holiday music, junk food, and commercialism at my job. But I know it was more than that. It was all those emotions that I've accumulated in the past year, finally catching up to me.
So I sat myself down tonight, said Kendra, you need to get your shit together (true story), and finished writing this post. If only to remind myself that it's not too late to let go. Because a sweet kiss from my loved one tonight gave me a spark of happiness, so I know it's not out of reach. It's always been there, but I have to let it in.
Next week, Sarah will probably want to carry an even bigger bag with her to the park. And I will remind her of what happened last time, and she will do it anyway. But I know that someday this will change. When I am with these two sweet girls, I listen to them freely spout out their feelings, not feeling ashamed or embarrassed to cry or laugh or scream or shout. And what a beautiful thing it is.
The things we carry are an inevitable part of being human. We can't erase them, and we can't exterminate them. Every person on planet Earth, the assholes and the angels alike, has skin that is etched with a millions stories and a million wounds. If we learn to share our burdens, perhaps we can be a bit more connected. A bit happier. A bit more loving.
Even as I type these words, fingers flying on my smudged keyboard, I can feel one more shadow fading away, unleashing its grip on my heart. The process has begun. And I welcome the voices of those who have also started this process, because we're all in it together. It is no longer an I but a We.
Take these words as an invisible hug. A soft touch on the shoulders. An invitation to share and speak. And maybe cry too. I will listen to you and you will listen to me. And together, we will get better. And we will let go.